Joe Abercrombie - The Heroes

‘Just Beck?’

‘Aye.’

Reachey grinned. ‘Man like you needs a bit more name than that, I reckon. We’ll call you …’ He looked Beck up and down for a moment, then nodded to himself like he had the answer. ‘Red Beck.’ He turned in his saddle and shouted to his Named Men. ‘How d’you like that, lads? Red Beck!’ And they started banging their shields with their sword hilts, and their chests with their gauntlets, and sending up a right clatter.

‘You see this?’ shouted Reachey. ‘Here’s the kind o’ lad we need! Everyone look at this lad! Let’s find us some more like him! Some more bloody little bastards!’ Laughter, and cheering, and nods of approval all round. Mostly for the Union being driven back past the bridge, but partly for him, and his bloody day. He’d always wanted respect, and the company of fighting men, and above all a fearsome name. Now he had the lot, and all he’d had to do was hide in a cupboard and kill someone on his own side, then take the credit for his work.

‘Red Beck.’ Flood grinned proudly like a father at his baby’s first steps. ‘What d’you reckon to that, boy?’

Beck stared down at the ground. ‘Don’t know.’

Straight Edge

‘Ah!’ Craw jerked away from the needle on an instinct and only made the thread tug at his cheek and hurt him worse, ‘Ah!’

‘Oftentimes,’ murmured Whirrun, ‘a man’s better served embracing his pain than trying to escape it. Things are smaller when you face ’em.’

‘Easily said when you’re the one with the needle.’ Craw sucked air through his teeth as the point nipped at his cheek again. Hardly the first stitches he ever had, but it’s strange how quick you forget what a given kind of pain feels like. It was coming back to him now, and no mistake. ‘Best thing might be to get it over with quick, eh?’

‘I’m right there with you on that, but the sorry fact is I’m a much better killer than I am a healer. Tragedy of my life. I can stitch all right and I know Crow’s Foot from the Alomanter and how to rub each one on a bandage and I can hum a charm or two—’

‘They any use?’

‘The way I sing ’em? Only for scaring off cats.’

‘Ah!’ grunted Craw as Whirrun pressed his cut closed between finger and thumb and pushed the needle through again. He really had to stop squawking, there were plenty about with far worse’n a scratch across the cheek.

‘Sorry,’ grunted Whirrun. ‘You know, I’ve thought on it before, now and then, in the slow moments—’

‘You get a lot o’ those, don’t you?’

‘Well, you’re taking your time about showing me this destiny of mine. Anyway, it seems to me a man can do an awful lot of evil in no time at all. Swing of a blade is all it takes. Doing good needs time. And all manner of complicated efforts. Most men don’t have the patience for it. ’Specially not these days.’

‘Those are the times.’ Craw paused, chewing at a flap of loose skin on his bottom lip. ‘Do I say that too much? Am I turning into my father? Am I turning into a boring old fool?’

‘All heroes do.’

Craw snorted. ‘Those that live to hear their own songs.’

‘Terrible strain on a man, hearing his self sung about. Enough to make anyone a shit.’

‘Even if they weren’t one in the first place.’

‘Which isn’t likely. I guess hearing songs about warriors makes men feel brave their own selves, but a great warrior has to be at least half way mad.’

‘Oh, I’ve known a few great warriors weren’t mad at all. Just heartless, careless, selfish bastards.’

Whirrun bit off the thread with his teeth. ‘That is the other common option.’

‘Which are you, then, Whirrun? Mad or a heartless prick?’

‘I try to bridge the gap between the two.’

Craw chuckled in spite of the throbbing in his face. ‘That right there. That right there is a bloody hero’s effort.’

Whirrun settled back on his heels. ‘You’re done. And not a bad job either, though I’m singing my own praises. Maybe I’ll give up the killing and turn to healing after all.’

A growling voice cut through the faint ringing still going in Craw’s ears. ‘After the battle, though, eh?’

Whirrun blinked up. ‘Why, if it ain’t the Protector of the North. I feel all … protected. Swaddled up, like in a good coat.’

‘Had that effect all my life.’ Dow looked down at Craw with his hands on his hips, the sun bright behind him.

‘You going to bring me some fighting, Black Dow?’ Whirrun slowly stood, pulling his sword up after him. ‘I came here to fill graves, and the Father of Swords is getting thirsty.’

‘I daresay I can scare you up something to kill before too long. In the meantime I need a private word with Curnden Craw, here.’

Whirrun clapped a hand to his chest. ‘Wouldn’t dream of putting myself in between two lovers.’ And he swanned off up the hill, sword over one shoulder.

‘Strange bastard, that,’ said Dow as he watched Whirrun go.

Craw grunted as he unfolded his legs and slowly stood, shaking his aching joints out. ‘He plays up to it. You know how it is, having a reputation.’

‘Fame’s a prison, no doubt. How’s your face?’

‘Lucky I’ve always been an ugly bastard. I’ll look no worse’n before. Do we know what it was did the damage?’

Dow shook his head. ‘Who knows with the Southerners? Some new weapon. Some style o’ sorcery.’

‘It’s an evil one. That can just reach out and pluck men away like that.’

‘Is it? The Great Leveller’s waiting for all of us, ain’t he? There’ll always be someone stronger, quicker, luckier’n you, and the more fighting you do the quicker he’s going to find you. That’s what life is for men like us. The time spent plummeting towards that moment.’

Craw wasn’t sure he cared for that notion. ‘At least in the line, or the charge, or the circle a man can fight. Pretend to have a hand in the outcome.’ He winced as he touched the fresh stitching with his fingertips. ‘How do you make a song about someone whose head got splattered while he was half way through saying nothing much?’

‘Like Splitfoot.’

‘Aye.’ Craw wasn’t sure he’d ever seen anyone look deader than that bastard.

‘I want you to take his place.’

‘Eh?’ said Craw. ‘My ears are still whining. Not sure I heard you right.’

Dow leaned closer. ‘I want you to be my Second. Lead my Carls. Watch my back.’

Craw stared. ‘Me?’

‘Aye, you, what did I fucking say?’

‘But … why the hell me ?’

‘You got the experience, and the respect …’ Dow looked at him for a moment, his jaw clenched tight. Then he waved a hand like he was swatting a fly. ‘You remind me o’ Threetrees.’

Craw blinked. It might’ve been one of the best things anyone had ever said to him, and not from a source prone to lazy compliments. Or any compliments at all, in fact. ‘Well … I don’t know what to say. Thank you, Chief. That means a lot. A hell of a bloody lot. If I ever get to be a tenth of the man he was then I’ll be more’n satisfied—’

‘Shit on that. Just tell me you’ll do it. I need someone I can count on, Craw, and you do things the old way. You’re a straight edge, and there ain’t many left. Just tell me you’ll do it.’ He had a strange look to him, suddenly. An odd, weak twist to his mouth. If Craw hadn’t known better, he’d have called it fear, and suddenly he saw it.

Dow had no one he could turn his back to. No friends but those he’d scared into serving him and a mountain of enemies. No choice but to trust to a man he hardly knew ’cause he reminded him of an old comrade long gone back to the mud. The cost of a great big name. The harvest of a lifetime in the black business.